


With Reverence to the Moonlight

by TheLordOfLaMancha



Series: Sublime Kumquats [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: But who am I kidding it's Jehan, Character Study, Fluff, Jehan is hesitant about dating Courfeyrac, M/M, More poetry than prose sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Courfeyrac messes up trying to ask Jehan out by smooth talking him, Jehan is afraid that he will just be another one of Courfeyrac's flings. But perhaps Jehan loves Courfeyrac enough to risk it. And maybe Courfeyrac is in deeper than he thought. Giant character study of Jehan Prouvaire and Courfeyrac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Reverence to the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theconfusedartist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theconfusedartist/gifts).



> For theconfusedartist. I'll get through all the songs eventually.
> 
> My ever helpful Beta, [teatimedutchess.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeatimeDuchess)
> 
> Song inspiration: [A Sky Full of Stars by Coldplay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zp7NtW_hKJI)

The Musain was quiet for a weeknight. But then again, the Amis meeting had been cancelled. Courfeyrac thought people must just tend to avoid the café on evenings when the local revolutionaries made a spectacle over their coffees. His was getting cold on the table in front of him.

Musichetta had left him to his reverie in the back corner of the café, cleaning tables near the door. The normally jubilant Courfeyrac was slumped in the corner of a booth seat, idle fingers toying with his cup. His dark curls tangled with the pattern of the wallpaper he leaned his head on, and his mouth was full of sighs. The evening had not been good to him.

Sighing like a poet, he thought to himself and then regretted it. He had come on to Jehan with all the charm of Casanova, the face of a Courfeyrac enamoured that had never failed him in the past, and Prouvaire had cut him, measured him, and left him out to dry. Courfeyrac hadn’t faced a rejection like that since the time he tried to talk Combeferre into a threesome with him. And it hurt not just his pride.

This wasn’t an ache deep in his chest that he could easily dismiss as heart burn and swagger on forward into his next fling. This was… Courfeyrac found he didn’t have a word for it. He felt… incredibly empty. It was like anger and a sense of void… like fire had consumed his insides and he was just a fragile empty shell of what he once was. What Courfeyrac realized as he stared into his untouched coffee was that what he had mistaken for lust had actually been something far more terrifying. This time his heart wasn’t in it for the end game. It was in it for the long haul. And Courfeyrac had bet everything that Jehan would fold to him like a house of cards. He had never been so incredibly wrong in his life.

Musichetta was giving him a desperate look from the counter, the café spotless and empty, but for Courfeyrac. Sitting up, he took one last look at his coffee before leaving enough Euros on the table to cover his bill and walking silently out into the street.

The night was cool and clear and the moon outshone the streetlights. Courfeyrac let his feet lead him to the bus stop, where he leaned on the post, his mind racing ahead of him. How had he misjudged Jehan so? Courfeyrac cringed as he thought of his bravado. He had treated Jehan like another pretty face and Jehan wasn’t like that. He was more than that; he deserved more respect than that. And Prouvaire wasn’t about to accept anything less. Courfeyrac would never have expected him to. So why had he put on an act? Of course, he knew that the answer was simple. He should have noticed it earlier. For the first time in his life, Courfeyrac had been afraid to love. So he did what he did best. He hid behind his smile and tried to charm his way into getting what he wanted.

And now he stood alone and waiting, looking up at the stars that painted the sky. Courfeyrac had always liked the night, and the way the stars never failed to keep him company. They were full of stories and legends he had once memorized by heart as a boy. They were his constant companion in a world that shifted beneath his feet. He had been through a hundred odd faces, and a dozen different places, but the stars… the stars were constant and unwavering. But now, the light they shone down upon him was cold and full of judgement.

* * *

Sometime earlier, a poet was catching the last drops of sunlight as he blindly followed the river out of the city. Here, where the hills began to roll out of the muddy earth and the wildflowers bowed their dewy faces to the twilight that swept over their heads, the poet felt his soul betrayed. He marched angrily, nothing akin to his normal eloquent step, and his slender fingers were coiled into the softness of his palms. Away and alone, Jehan Prouvaire dropped his usual quiet countenance and screamed aimlessly at the water, swinging his arms with reckless abandon.  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his hair blowing on the wind, set alight to the likeness of fire by the glow of the sunset. He entwined his fingers in it and pulled, shaking, affronted at nothing and at everything.

Jehan felt full, so terribly and forcefully full with feeling that he was bursting and it hurt. It crushed him slowly until he was forced to embed himself into the natural garden of the hillsides and rest just to breathe. His fingertips curled gently around the bases of wildflowers and he watched their petals twitch with the evening breeze to distract him as he evened his breathing. Just write Prouvaire, he thought to himself. Just write and let it out, empty yourself into words for the wind. He sat up abruptly with a grimace, breaking the stem of the flower in his grasp.

It wasn’t that easy. Jehan wished, dreamed, that he could be as light and free as the blossoms that grew candidly in the provinces. Frailty wasn’t a vice, but a virtue, and it came with a kind of graceful acquiescence. He longed to be able to bend with ease to the wills of others, like flowers on the wind, bending but never breaking. But alas, no matter how many daisies he might plait into his braids, he could never be a pansy. He was burdened with too strong a will in his mind and too deep a feeling in his heart, and he stood rigid as an old oak in his principles. He was ruled by his emotions and it made him cautious.

He glanced down at the bloom resting in his palm. Even flowers could be broken, Jehan thought. And so the poet was at war with himself. His heart had folded, easily and all at once, as it had the first time the poet’s venerable eyes had been entreated to gentle curls and an impassioned gaze. Prouvaire knew it would not take many words to break him, coming from a heart the likes of his, but his mind, oh, his mind was a stubborn beast. Ever wary, it checked him in the face of such undeniable charm… It would not let his heart be so easily led.

The flower in his hand picked up on a sudden gust of wind that shook Prouvaire of his thoughts, and the wild blossom carried up into the star filled sky. Jehan sighed to the core of his being. He watched the petals flit out of sight amongst the starlight.

“Courfeyrac,” Jehan breathed with reverence to the moonlight, as though the name in itself was the poet’s single greatest verse. His mind did not yet realize what his soul was willing to sacrifice. Dreams were only dreams as long as you kept them, but his romantic soul would risk loss for even the brevity of making them reality.

He retrieved his phone and called Grantaire.

“With what pleasure do my ears receive the gifts of the wordsmith,” Grantaire answered, a sly smile clear in his voice.

“Grantaire,” Jehan said softly, and his voice betrayed his feeling. He was always honest with Grantaire.

“Jehan, what did he do,” Grantaire asked, a growl in his voice. He was more perceptive than he let on.

“Nothing, R,” Jehan replied, fighting the break in his voice. “Nothing… and everything.”

Grantaire was silent on the other end of the line, simply waiting for Jehan to collect himself.

“R, he,” Jehan almost couldn’t bring himself to say it. But he had to. He must. “He was hitting on me and then he...”

Now Grantaire’s silence had weight, but shortly, Jehan heard the sound of the phone clattering on the floor, and the rustle of fingers brushing over the speaker.

“I’m sorry, Prouvaire,” Grantaire replied, incredulous. “I must not have heard you correctly.”

“You did well enough,” Jehan replied.

“Then why the melancholy?” Grantaire asked. “This should be a cause for celebration!”

“I turned him down,” Jehan said bitterly. “You know I could never say yes.”

Grantaire launched into a flurry of profanities that lacked dignity. He soon calmed down and breathed aggressively into the phone.

“Why, Prouvaire!?” Grantaire asked. “Why would you do that?”

“You know why,” Jehan bit back. “That risk… I’m not you, I don’t know if I could bear it.”

Grantaire sighed.

“Tell me about Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said softly, encouragingly.

“What?” Jehan asked, taken aback.

“Tell me about Courfeyrac,” Grantaire repeated, nonchalantly.

“He’s a member of les Amis, he’s a few years older than me, his best friends are – ” Jehan began explaining.

“No, no, Prouvaire,” Grantaire interrupted. “Tell me about _Courfeyrac_.”

Jehan, the poet, was at a loss for words. Sure, he had whispered sweet nothings to himself about his effervescent Courfeyrac a hundred times before. But now that it was within the realm of possibility to murmur such lyrics into the ears of his beloved in the quiet… Jehan shook his head.

“Courfeyrac is a… a flirt, a seducer. He charms, Grantaire,” Jehan said sorely. “He charms like a wolf luring sorry prey in for the slaughter. He’s dangerous, with his looks, and oh, Grantaire, his smile. Sly and vexatious, and he’ll toy with you for a time. You’ll have his constant devotion and loyalty until you sense security and love, and then on instinct he’ll… he’ll leave you to the cruelty of the world, broken and so desperately detached. But what’s worse is he’ll let you down with tenderness, as though the syrupy sweetness dripping from his gentle lips will act as anesthesia to the parting. And you cannot blame him for it. You will give him reprieve a hundred times over for your suffering because he is so vastly and tremendously good.”

Jehan was laughing now, but it was a sad sort of laugh, the way one would laugh when faced with something disagreeable. He was lying on the hill now, looking up into the rich, starry sky, and the phone lay on speaker in the grass.

“He’s so good, Grantaire,” Jehan breathed. “So venerable, honourable. He’s slick and smooth with people, but once you obtain his trust, his loyalty to his friends is unshakable. He carries with him an amiable word on his tongue and he spills over with ardor for his friends, his cause, for his very life. And he positively glows, Grantaire. If Enjolras is the sun god, as you say my besotted friend, then Courfeyrac is the starlight, lighting our way through the darkness until the sun can rise again.”

Grantaire was speechless and for a while the two just breathed, alone with their thoughts.

“Courfeyrac’s relationships never last,” Jehan said after a while. “And… and I don’t want that. I don’t want to be just another fling that sends him hopping off to another Ami. But… Grantaire, oh, I want to say yes so fiercely. I look up at the sky and I want to know what starlight feels like. If I say yes, I’m going to be an evening Icarus, and I don’t know if my poor bohemian soul can survive losing a love like that. And yet, I find I don’t care?”

“My enchanted Prouvaire,” Grantaire sighed. “He loves you. I know you don’t see it yet, but trust in these eyes, my friend, they know truth. He loves you and that’s more than either of us have ever wished with our gazes set upon shooting stars. It is a risk worth taking.”

“Oh yes,” Jehan laughed. “And when will the truth in those eyes see the meaning in Apollo’s pointed gazes?”

“Oh hush,” Grantaire chided, caught in his own hypocrisy. “You’re ruining the moment. Besides I think your mind has sorted itself on its own.”

“Indeed, my friend,” Jehan replied. “Goodnight Grantaire.”

“Bon soir, Prouvaire,” Grantaire said, hanging up.

Jehan rose and watched the starlight sparkle along the gentle crests of the winding river. By the light of the full moon, the poet wandered his lonely way back to the life of the city.

* * *

The hour had grown late by the bus stop, and the stars had shifted in their rotation under Courfeyrac’s watchful gaze. Cassopeia had long since tumbled from her chair in the skies, and still no bus had come. Courfeyrac assumed he must have missed it. Karma, he supposed, for his mistreatment of Jehan. With one last spiteful look at the moon, he turned to make his long walk home.

Perhaps if he apologized, Courfeyrac thought, Prouvaire wasn’t so heartless as to withhold forgiveness. Perhaps if he gave it time, Prouvaire would give him another chance. Not that he deserved it, Courfeyrac thought. But if he did, next time he would do it right. Jehan was not the kind of man to be charmed with good looks and crafty words. Jehan Prouvaire was a man to be worshiped with all the limits of the English language, and then in other languages too. And Courfeyrac thought then, that he might learn them all in order to show his devotion.

Someone was approaching on the sidewalk from the other direction that enraptured Courfeyrac’s attention. Their head hung forward, and their long hair followed, obscuring their face. Their hands were tucked neatly into the pockets of their pants and they walked with a softness of step, lithe like a cat. As they passed under the soft glow of the streetlights, Courfeyrac could discern a series of questionable fashion choices, and he smiled despite himself. The stranger reminded him of Jehan. In the moonlight, the stranger’s hair glowed like a halo.

Courfeyrac had stopped himself a few steps from a bench on the side of the street and watched the stranger approach. The closer they got, the more certain Courfeyrac was that this was in fact his beloved Jehan Prouvaire. The man was muttering quietly and reverently to himself, and not watching where he was going. Courfeyrac listened and recognized lines of Yeats and Tennyson, Whitman and Shakespeare. Interspersed between were lines he didn’t recognize, but carried the same enlightened grandeur.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac barely breathed into the quiet street, and Jehan’s eyes snapped up to meet his with surprise.

Jehan had stopped to react and stood apart from Courfeyrac by the length of the bench. Once Jehan realized who faced him, he took a step back and frowned. His pious lips met halfway between a grimace and a pout, as though they could not decide. Jehan turned towards the bench and folded his arms across his chest. Courfeyrac turned his face away in shame, but he could not help the smile that broke the façade. His heart was captivated with the eloquent beauty that stood before him. Jehan watched Courfeyrac out of the corner of his eye and wondered what he had done to grace his life with starlight.

Jehan sighed and took a seat upon the bench, turning his gaze up to the moon, and Courfeyrac watched him. Prouvaire, his Jehan, was something different indeed, Courfeyrac thought. His hair was run through with the moonlight as he braided it idly between his ink smudged fingertips. Everything about Jehan was gentle and light, but Courfeyrac knew there was a hidden ferocity under the surface. You could hear it in the poet’s carefully chosen words and the edge of his voice. You could see it in the darkness of his eyes and the tense set of his shoulders. Courfeyrac’s fingers itched to rub those shoulders free of their anxiety and pull free the careful plaits that Jehan was folding, but he knew he better behave himself. He placed his hands in his back pockets instead and downcast his eyes. But he still caught the small smile at the corner of Jehan’s lips as he held the end of the braid with silver ribbons, and Courfeyrac thought that after midnight, Jehan was downright elven, and he couldn’t think of anything in that moment more enchantingly romantic.

“You ought to join me, Courf,” Jehan spoke softly returning his eyes to the sky. “We have much to talk about.”

Courfeyrac hesitated at first, also following his gaze up to the moon. Then, turning to face Jehan, he took a seat on the bench.

“You are just like the moon, Jehan Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac said, never taking his eyes off the man across from him. “Bright and full of mystery.”

“You’re right, I must be the moon,” Jehan replied. “For you are the starlight of a thousand worlds and this is why we are in love.”

Courfeyrac was taken aback by Jehan’s words and his eyes narrowed in confusion.

“But Jehan,” Courfeyrac countered, but Jehan raised a patient hand to quiet him. Courfeyrac settled and waited. At the very least, he owed it to Jehan to listen. The two sat in silence for a time, taking in the sounds of the nightlife.

“I’m going to give you my heart, Courfeyrac,” Jehan said earnestly. “But you need to understand why.”

Courfeyrac knew there was a pun here about Jehan’s “change of heart,” but he held his tongue and checked his excitement. Jehan turned and reached out to take Courfeyrac’s hand. He gently stroked Courfeyrac’s fingers as he spoke, and it took every inch of Courfeyrac’s self-control, not to reach out and embrace Jehan.

“When I look into your eyes,” Jehan continued. “I see a sky full of stars, Courf. You are thoroughly brimming with starlight that lights the path of our lives. You shine with intrinsic integrity and kindness. I have never known someone so amiable, so full of passion for life. It’s a heavenly view. Enjolras may be full of passion for France, but you, Courfeyrac, you are full of the passion for life that carries us through the night. And this is why I love you.”

“I love you too,” Courfeyrac replied with ease, and Jehan nodded softly.

“But like the night we are also both full of darkness,” Jehan replied solemnly, his eyes cast aside. “As you will sadly come to realize with time, I’m sure, there is darkness in me that knows no name. And in even you, Courfeyrac, there is darkness too. Your charm is perilous and I am afraid. I’m anxious that I will be another quick romance. Should I ever lose your affection, it would tear me apart. But I’ve come to realize that I don’t care if you do, because this romantic heart of mine is in love with the goodness in yours.”

Courfeyrac smiled serenely, and ran his free hand along Jehan’s jaw. Jehan turned to face him with wide eyes.

“Oh, Jehan,” Courfeyrac sighed. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I’m not good with words like you are, but I will try to express how I feel. I want to wake up in the morning and read the verses you’ve scrawled on your arm the night before. I want to braid your hair over tea, and know the marvelous world that lights up your eyes. I look at you and think about lazy afternoons, and romance movies, and flower crowns, and rain, and moonlight. You have bewitched me, Jehan Prouvaire, body _and_ soul. And that’s never happened to me before.”

Jehan’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Did you just quote that _Pride and Prejudice_ movie?” Jehan asked suspiciously.

“Maybe,” Courfeyrac admitted, his eyes darting to the side. Jehan slapped him playfully on the arm.

“You’ve seen that?” Jehan asked, his face lighting up with a goofy smile. Courfeyrac huffed.

“I mean it though,” Courfeyrac said seriously. “Really.”

“You’re far from a Mr. Darcy,” Jehan admitted.

“You’re right, I am,” Courfeyrac laughed. “Even Darcy was more of a romantic than I am.”

“I can forgive you for it,” Jehan hummed, and smiled slyly. He tilted his head to the side.

“What?” Courfeyrac asked.

“I was thinking I wanted to kiss you just now," Jehan said.

"As you wish," Courfeyrac replied with a smirk, leaning forward.

"For the love of all the Gods, Courf," Jehan sighed, but he smiled as he stood from the bench and continued his walk home.

"What?" Courfeyrac whined. "Oh, come on. Jehan!"

But with a mischievous smile, he followed Jehan home.

**Author's Note:**

> Jehan references way too many things in this for me to catch them all, so you'll have to ask if you're confused about something.
> 
> The movies Courfeyrac quotes at the end are the 2005 adaptation of _Pride & Prejudice_ when he says "You have bewitched me, body and soul," and he's quoting _The Princess Bride_ when he says "As you wish."
> 
> [fishandchipsandvinegar](http://fishandchipsandvinegar.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. :)


End file.
